Everyone Loves An Irish Boy
by BroadwayBaggins
Summary: Modern AU. When bartender Sybil Crawley comes up against a group of drunk American college students on Saint Patrick's Day, she receives some unexpected help in the form of pub regular Tom Branson.


Saint Patrick's Day fic for yankeecountess, who asked for "med student Sybil works at a bar in London. On St Patrick's Day a bunch of loud, American frat boys enter the bar and are clearly drunk from a pub crawl and start harassing her—BUT Tom Branson, who's a pub regular (and who secretly has a crush on Sybil) rises from his booth in the corner and growls at them and they back down…Sybil gives him a drink on the house, and an impromptu date occurs"

30 Day Drabble Challenge Day 17. Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

Sybil had just finished wiping down the bar after the last batch of hooligans when the door to the pub swung open again, carrying with it drunken voices and more than a faint whiff of alcohol. She almost groaned out loud. "Not again."

"Worst night of the year," her coworker Gwen agreed.

Bartending wasn't exactly the path that Sybil Crawley had envisioned for her life. But when she'd told her wealthy, aristocratic parents that she wanted to become a doctor (instead of go into one of several "parental approved" professions, which included lawyer and trophy wife), the resulting row had ended with an irate Earl of Grantham cutting off his daughter financially if she decided to go through with her "mad" plan to go to medical school. Sybil's mother had been able to talk sense into him, convincing him to recant his decision, but by then the damage had already been done. Sybil had declared to her shocked parents that she was happy to be cut off. She didn't need their money, she had argued, nor did she want it. She was more than happy to pay for everything herself.

That had been two years ago, and in many ways Sybil wasn't sure the shock had ever quite worn off.

The move to London had been easy enough—her sister Mary had more than enough friends and contacts in the area to make Sybil feel like she was not alone. But the bills had begun to pile up quicker than she had thought, and she knew her part-time job at a used bookstore near her new flat wasn't going to be enough to keep her afloat. She did not want to have to ask her parents for money, not after the scene she'd made, and returning home a failure if she couldn't pay her bills was ten times worse. The Bell and Compass, a pub in Charing Cross near the Embankment Tube station, hadn't been Sybil's first choice to drop off her CV. But after stepping inside and meeting the pub's owner, an enigmatic fellow named Thomas Barrow, and a few of the staff, Gwen among them, Sybil knew she had found a new family. She loved it there. Every shift had its highs and lows, but she had never regretted her choice to apply for a job there.

Except on Saint Patrick's Day.

Admittedly, it wasn't as hellish as it might have been. One of Sybil's med school colleagues was from Chicago, and she had told stories fraught with both humor and horror of the antics she and her friends back home had gotten up to in the city—both things they had witnessed and participated in. Sybil supposed she should be grateful that they didn't dye the Thames green like they did the Chicago River. But still, the holiday meant drunken idiots doing ridiculous things, and making more of a mess than they usually did. Already Sybil had cleaned up the sad remains of more than fifteen broken glasses, and the night was technically still young. And if the group of young men in hooded sweatshirts that had just staggered in were any indication, Sybil's night was just beginning.

The kids looked a little younger than she was—university students, no doubt, and American from their accents and the level of their voices. Americans, though most hardly realized it, tended to speak louder than their British counterparts, particularly in crowded areas. Ordinarily, Sybil didn't mind it much, but their raucous shouting and horrible attempts at singing were threatening to give her that headache that she had been trying to avoid most of the day. She looked to Gwen for help, but she had slipped into the back to retrieve an order from the kitchen, or maybe to take some medicine—she had mentioned feeling under the weather earlier. It looked like Sybil was on her own.

She pasted a smile on her face as the kids staggered up to the bar. "Evening, lads!" she cried out, trying her best to seem welcoming. "Happy Saint Patrick's Day—"

The boys cheered drunkenly, and Sybil rolled her eyes.

"What can I get for you?" she asked, raising her voice to be heard over their shouts. She squinted at their sweatshirts, all of which seemed to have a collection of Greek letters embossed across the front. American uni students from some fraternity or other, here on spring break or some sort of study abroad experience. And Gwen had abandoned her to her fate. Excellent.

"We have some specials on Guinness tonight, and all of our Irish menu items are half off. Maybe you'd like some boxty, they're really good potato pancakes, or bangers and mash…"

"I'd like to bang your mash!" one of the boys crowed, and Sybil hated the way she could feel heat rising to her face. The boy's outburst was met with mixed reactions from his friends—some cackled and slapped him on the back, others, who looked more sober or at least in possession of more common sense, rolled their eyes at their friend's stupidity. Where the hell was Gwen?

"Very funny," Sybil said dryly. "It's just mashed potatoes and sausage, actually…"

"Funny, I was about to offer her the same thing!"

Sybil's face reddened more, but she wasn't sure whether it was from anger or humiliation. She had had to deal with more than her fair share of drunk men in the past, but something about this crowd was worse than usual. "How about just some drinks to start with?" she said quickly. "Our beers on tap are…" Suddenly the name of every single beer had gone out of her head, and she had to turn to look. "Guinness stout, Magner's—_HEY!"_

Her words were punctuated by a cry as one of the Americans reached out and pinched her, hard, on the bum.

"Not wearing green!" he crowed, and his friends clamored to high-five him.

Sybil whirled around, her face burning. "Yes I _am_!" she cried out, indicating her green top. She had made sure she had one that was clean for this very purpose. She hadn't wanted to take any chances, but apparently, she shouldn't have bothered. "Look, are you going to order something or not?"

The boy who had pinched her grinned. "Give me a kiss first."

Sybil stared at him. "Are you _insane?"_

"Come on. Don't English girls love Americans? Just picture me as Brad Pitt."

"We'd have to turn all the lights out for her to do that, Stephen!"

Stephen grinned wickedly at her. "Whatever the lady wants."

"I am _not_ going to kiss you."

"Awww, come on, Queen Victoria. What's the problem? You too good for me or something?"

As a matter of fact, she was, but Sybil wasn't going to tell him that.

"Because I do not just kiss random strangers at work!"

"Come on, it's a holiday!"

"Lay off her, Stephen, she said no." Sybil breathed a sigh of relief as one of the boys, swaying on his feet, came to her aid. But her relief was short-lived as he turned to her with a lewd grin, puckering his lips. "Maybe she'd rather have me instead."

The boys cheered again, taking up a chant. "Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!"

"Get out!" Sybil cried, surprising herself.

The boys' chant ended abruptly. The one who had started the chant narrowed his eyes. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Sybil held her ground, despite the fact that the boy was six inches taller than her at least. "You heard what I said. You haven't ordered anything and you're disrupting the entire pub. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Didja hear that, guys? This British bitch is going to "have to ask us to leave." Just because we were being a little loud."

"You were harassing me."

"That's your opinion. Last I checked, this was a free country."

"Last I checked, you aren't in America right now, actually. And it doesn't matter. They have the same rules as here and I have the right to refuse service to anyone. Including you. Get out of here before I call the police and get you all on a plane back to whatever spoiled suburb you came from."

"Nathan, come on. It's not worth it. Let's go," one of the boys said nervously. "Let's just go. We'll find another bar."

"Shut up, Drew." Nathan shook his head, a fragile—but clearly angry—smile crossing his face. "You fucking bitch," he told Sybil, his voice eerily calm and quiet. Sybil was already reaching for the phone to call the police, but movement out of the corner of her eye stopped her just as Nathan went to lunge for her.

A huge, burly arm stopped him, grabbing Nathan by the collar before he could strike. "The lady told you to get lost," he growled. "If you know what's good for you, you better listen to her."

Sybil's eyes widened. She hardly recognized him, not when he looked this angry, but at a closer glance she definitely knew the irate man standing between her and about ten very angry American schoolboys. His name was Tom, from what she had been able to gather, and he was a regular at the Bell and Compass. He would sit in the same booth and nurse a Guinness for hours on end, thumbing through some thick, intellectual-looking book that Sybil always wanted to ask him about but had never been brave enough. Not that Sybil wasn't smart herself, a second-year med student, but something about the books he read intimidated her…and if his reading material didn't, his attractiveness certainly did. He had been described by Gwen more than once as "a real beefcake," whatever that meant, and his blue eyes were always full of so much kindness when she gave him his order. She was surprised that he had jumped to her aid, this stupid secret crush of hers, but she wasn't going to question it, not now.

"I said, get out," Tom growled, shoving Nathan roughly away from him. "Take your good-for-nothing friends with you, and don't come back. Find someone else to bother, or better yet, go home and sleep it off before we both do something we'll regret."

"Guys, let's just go," the boy named Drew said urgently. "We don't want any trouble, right?"

"Your friend seems smarter than the rest of you. I'd listen to him." Tom's Irish accent seemed to become more pronounced the angrier he got, and his face was reddening as well. When Nathan took a step forward, the glare from Tom was enough to peel the paint from the walls, and he shoved the boy backwards so hard his friends had to catch him.

"Bastard," Nathan hissed, but he looked properly frightened now. Sybil cried out as his fist sailed towards Tom, but Tom, who had at least forty-five pounds on the kid and several inches, was able to dodge it easily and launched his own attack, catching Nathan in the jaw. Several people gasped, and there were two mass exoduses—one to the door to avoid any trouble, the other to the crowd to watch the fight if it escalated. Nathan staggered backwards, rubbing his jaw, clearly spooked and unwilling to continue. "Come on, guys, we don't need this. Let's get out of here." He glared at Tom. "Don't think I won't tell my teacher about this. My dad too. I'm gonna get this whole fucking place shut down."

"You don't scare me. Go run back to your daddy. I'm sure he'll fix everything for you."

Like frightened mice, they filed out the door with their tails between their legs, no doubt to cause trouble somewhere else. "And don't let me catch you here again!" Tom roared, letting the door slam shut behind them. The pub became eerily silent.

When Tom went to speak to Sybil to make sure she was okay, he found the bar empty, the door to the kitchen swinging shut behind her.

Five minutes to collect herself, splash some cold water on her face, comfort Gwen (who had been in the loo this whole time, apparently, dealing with some unfortunate stomach bug) and then Sybil was back out behind the bar. Most of the people had left in the ensuing scuffle, and Sybil was glad. Tom had gone back to his book in the corner as if nothing had happened. He looked up, surprised, when Sybil slid a fresh pint over to him. A faint smile crossed his face. "I didn't order this."

"I knew what your usual was, so I just thought I'd bring this over," Sybil said softly. "As my thanks."

"No need. I know you probably could have taken care of yourself, but I couldn't help myself. I had to jump in."

"I could have taken care of myself if it was just one. I don't know how I could have handled nine as easily as you. Maybe if my boss had been here, or if Gwen hadn't disappeared on me, but regardless…I really appreciate it."

"Any time," Tom said immediately. "I couldn't just sit by and watch, could I?"

"Some people would—some people _did_," she reminded him. "You didn't."

"Yeah. I guess I didn't."

Their eyes met for a moment, and Sybil felt herself smile for the first time since the Americans had come in. "My name is Sybil, by the way. I wasn't sure if you knew."

"Of course I knew," Tom said softly.

"My—my shift is up in five minutes," she said, not sure where the words had come from. "Mind if I join you? When I'm done?"

Tom grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
